Lilac Spring. Ruth Morren Axtell

hope these changes don’t come too quickly. Right now we have a loft to lay out and a mold to build.”

      He looked down at her indulgently, encouraged as always by her optimism. “There’s that word ‘we’ again. Do you propose to help me build the mold?”

      “If you’re agreeable.”

      He didn’t say anything, not wanting to dash her hopes. He realized as he watched her that it was good to have her back—even an adult version of the girl who’d seek him out every chance she got and “discuss” things with him, from every aspect of boats to the latest storybook character she had read about.

      “Your father has agreed to this?” he asked finally, his arms folded in front of him.

      “Don’t worry about Papa. I’ll take care of him.”

      “You’ve been taking care of him quite some years now. I wonder if he’ll ever discover it.”

      “Papa doesn’t know the talent he has right under his roof. So it looks as if, now that I’m back, I shall have to show him.” When he didn’t reply, she continued. “You ought to be Papa’s successor. If he can’t see that, well, he will, if I have anything to say about it.”

      He turned away his gaze, not reminding her of his own dream—she probably didn’t even remember it. “I still have to be down on the yard,” he reminded her instead.

      “So spend your mornings there.” She stood and went to the window. “There are more than enough men down there. You said yourself things were slow. There’s no reason you can’t spend your afternoons up here.” She turned to him, making a face. “I have agreed to spend my mornings with Aunt Phoebe, learning to run a house. But after that, I’m free. Papa said I could help out here.”

      “You have it all worked out.”

      She gave him a secret smile. “Papa will be convinced, you’ll see. He’ll realize your talent, and he’ll see I have a head for business. He’s already taking me with him to Hatsfield tomorrow to visit the Townsends’ operation.”

      So that’s what she’d meant about her fashionable attire.

      “Apropos, do you know anything of the Townsends? They were at the party yesterday.”

      “Not much. Townsend’s a lumber baron. They’re important in Hatsfield—that’s about all I know.”

      “I shall charm them with my European polish, and they will order a fleet of coastal schooners from our yard.”

      He frowned at the sudden picture of Cherish laughing and batting her thick, dark lashes at the tall, handsome, impeccably groomed Warren Townsend.

      The next morning Cherish took extra care with her toilette, wearing a deep rose gown with white ruffle collar and cuffs. She stuck in a pair of coral earrings and pulled her hair back in a thick coil, knowing the sail would play havoc with anything fancier. She pinned on a pert straw hat with ribbons that matched the gown and pulled back the short net veil. Then, she clipped on a matching pair of gold bracelets she’d purchased in Florence.

      She and her father rode in their buggy along the road down to the harbor. From the top of a slope they could see the village of Haven’s End set snug against a hilly curve of land. White houses nestled along its edges and up the surrounding hills. Three long wharves jutted out from the land into the protected harbor, which was filled with moored boats. Beyond, at its mouth, lay a wooded island.

      Her father dropped her off at the harbor and went to stable the horse and buggy. Silas was waiting on the wharf, dressed in a creamy, cabled sweater and pea jacket. Although the May day promised to warm up, Cherish knew it would be cold on the water. She had brought along a duffel coat, which she carried on one arm.

      “Good morning,” she greeted him.

      “Good morning,” he replied, his gray eyes taking in her appearance. “You’re looking smart.”

      If the compliment wasn’t all she’d hoped for, at least it was a compliment. Her efforts had been worth it. “Thank you,” she answered demurely.

      He took her coat and parasol, and she climbed down the catwalk after him to the awaiting skiff. Silas held out his hand to her as she stepped into the bobbing boat. Her father returned and loosened the painter before joining them.

      She settled aft and waited for her father to descend. He coiled the line and gave a nod to Silas to shove off.

      Silas sat forward and pulled at the oars, heading toward her father’s pinky schooner moored amidst the other fishing boats in the harbor.

      As soon as they arrived, Silas jumped aboard the schooner, and her father threw him the line. When the skiff lay alongside the pinky, her father climbed in and turned to help Cherish in. She took the line from her father. “I’ll secure it,” she told him.

      He loosed the pinky’s mooring line as Silas ran the foresail up the mast. Cherish went immediately and helped him with the lines. Her father took the tiller while Silas and Cherish trimmed the sail, and they maneuvered the vessel out of the crowded harbor.

      They left behind the briny smells of the harbor and the shriek of gulls and headed out to sea. Silas hoisted the mainsail and jib. The cloth caught and filled with the wind, sending the vessel skimming over the inky-blue water.

      Cherish went to sit beside Silas when he took over the tiller from her father. They sailed past the rocky, evergreen-wooded coast. Farmhouses were visible above the bays, but the tips of the peninsulas were woodland, the thickly growing spruce and balsam fir black against the rising sun. They navigated through narrows and channels between the coastal islands, some wooded, others bare, rocky fortresses withstanding the relentless battering of waves.

      Cherish breathed deeply of the crisp breeze. Her glance met Silas’s and she smiled. He smiled back and she knew they needed no words to express the enjoyment of being in a well-built craft upon the sea. She closed her eyes and lifted her head heavenward, feeling the sun on her face, the wind whipping at her cheeks. It was good to be alive. She praised God for all she’d seen and done, but most of all that she was home at last, close to the man she loved, within reach of her dream.

      All too soon they arrived in the tidal river leading up to the town of Hatsfield. Hatsfield was larger than Haven’s End, and Cherish eagerly noted the number of schooners, brigs and barks arrived from different ports.

      Silas lowered the sails and dropped anchor. She and her father climbed aboard the skiff once again as Silas stayed to secure the sails and leave everything shipshape.

      “I’ll send someone back with the skiff,” her father told him. With a final wave, they left him. Cherish looked back at him, wishing he were going with them.

      She turned her attention to the busy port. Stacks of logs lined the quay. Loads of shingles and shooks and freshly sawn lumber waited to be loaded onto the ships that brought barrels of molasses, dry goods, salt and grain from places afar.

      “Winslow!” called a voice from farther down the wharf.

      “Morning, Townsend,” her father answered as he advanced to meet Townsend senior and his son.

      Warren Townsend and his father presented an imposing pair of gentlemen, Cherish noted as the two men approached them. Warren was dressed in the manner of the young men in Boston, in contrast to the young farmers and fishermen down east. He wore a fine gray frock coat and matching vest and trousers, his boots polished to a shine. He was clean shaven, his hair, a rich brown, cut short.

      Mr. Townsend sent his son to escort Cherish to their home.

      “Mrs. Townsend and Annalise are awaiting you,” Townsend senior told her.

      “We’ll be up for dinner,” her father added.

      “I shall see you and Silas then,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

      They rode along the river, past stately homes. Just before entering the main town